Beginning
by Ravariel
Summary: Feuilly, in 1827, works his way through a difficult stretch without failing in his devotion to the call that has always given him strength. Based around a quote from Aeschylus: "His resolve is not to seem the bravest, but to be."


_His resolve is not to seem the bravest, but to be. –Aeschylus._

He woke up in the morning, ten minutes earlier than necessary to get to work on time, and struggled through several pages of Romanian history, translated from Latin into a scholarly dialect nearly as hard for him to comprehend. He had spent time with the same volume last night, forcing his way through exhaustion in an attempt to stretch his mind.

Deliverance, he reminded himself as the words seemed to swim on the page. Every idea you can take in is deliverance.

And Feuilly needed deliverance, perhaps now more than ever. After he had half-led his coworkers in a short strike six weeks ago, his foreman had given back his livret and made clear that most of the other employers in his line of work, the painting of small boxes and figurines, had heard his name and marked him as a man not to hire. As soon as he had gone out to look for work, he had found it was no empty threat—no one would take him.

Without connections, with the savings that could have kept him afloat exhausted during the strike, he had resorted to manual day-labor for the worst pay he'd had in years. Unskilled, strong mostly through adrenaline and determination and a quiet anger that always burned, Feuilly mixed thick lime for bricklayers and fought back his hunger with thoughts of the nations. For them he would work until he fell with exhaustion, read until his candle gave out and his head split with pain, think despite (or because of) all the unthinking men around him, who daily strove to bring him back to their level.

He had nothing to eat when the lunch break was called, so he leaned against a wall and drew on his sleeve with a stub of pencil—a sketch of what he thought the Polish mountains must be like, just to give himself courage.

In the afternoon it rained and his hair got quickly soaked because he had sold his cap for a few solid meals last week when he realized that bread and coffee and the occasional apple were no longer sufficient to carry him through this kind of work, but that was not important; it was important to keep the rain from interfering with the texture of the lime so he'd not get shouted at by his superiors on the job, and to think of those who would have nowhere to go at the end of the day.

When his damp hand, stiff from stirring and carrying and hard to recognize as the artist's tool it used to be, closed on his meager wages that evening, he clutched the coins tightly but thought, my earnings are not my deliverance. Bahorel has three thousand a year, and that does not make him free.

He went to the Corinthe as quickly as he could manage and bought bread and coffee, drying out as he listened to Enjolras talk. Courfeyrac had bought too much food and was sharing it with them all, so liberally that Feuilly would have had to be foolishly proud not to join in taking a few things. His wet jacket wasn't quite dry by the time he realized he would have to go home in order to work again tomorrow, but he shrugged it on anyway—he was warmed enough by the company. As he was going out, he heard his name called and turned to see who it was.

"…Enjolras."

Enjolras inclined his head as he drew close to speak to Feuilly privately. "I wanted to ask—has your situation improved at all?"

"No." At the deep blend of concern and respect in the question, Feuilly couldn't help sighing. "No, it hasn't. I look for better employment when I have the time, but mostly right now I'm just trying to live."

Enjolras held out a slip of paper. "Jehan wanted me to give this to you—the address of a fan-maker he once patronized when purchasing a gift for a young lady, I believe. They are looking for a painter."

"A fan-maker." Feuilly's heart rose as it hadn't in weeks. Fans were far enough from boxes and figurines that word of his troublemaking might not have spread there, but close enough that the style of painting would not be too hard to learn. A beginning, or at least a chance at one. "Yes, I'll look into it. Give Prouvaire my thanks."

"I will." Enjolras' hand rested gently on his shoulder. "—I appreciate that you still join us when it is not easy for you to do so. You are one of the bravest of men, Feuilly."

He gave a quiet, cynical laugh. "For doing what I do every day? Like I said, I'm just trying to live. Thousands of men have it as hard as I do."

Enjolras shook his head. "You may not seem the bravest, yet you are. For in all your personal struggles, you keep sight of your true and unselfish goal."

_Deliverance. _The word surged through Feuilly's heart. For himself, for France, for the nations. And perhaps this slip of paper Enjolras had handed him, with that address written in Jean Prouvaire's flowing script, could be his next step in that direction.

A beginning.

Courage flooded through him. He gave Enjolras a smile and headed out into the night—there would be time for a few pages of Romanian history tonight, even if he woke early to call on the fan-maker's shop tomorrow before work.


End file.
